Firewhiskey and Mint
by BlondeChick2009
Summary: Hermione hated Sunday nights. On Sunday nights, Draco became Malfoy and whatever love she could have imagined between them was smothered under his rough hands and Firewhiskey-laced breath.
1. Firewhiskey and Mint

**So, this scenario popped into my brain at around 11 last night, but I was already on the brink of sleep so I jotted it down for today. It's a bit darker than what I usually write but I really like it.**

**Voldemort is in charge now and Hermione is a slave (I realize this isn't very original). But, this is merely a small peek at an isolated event that haunts Hermione every Sunday night. **

**_ONE-SHOT_**

* * *

**_Firewhiskey and Mint_**

At 11:05 p.m., Hermione crawled into bed, exhausted from reading.

If this were any other night, she would have snuggled deep into the blankets, looked out the tall, arching window at the distant lane and waited until 11:11 for the tiny pinprick of wand light signaling Draco's arrival home.

Draco arrived every night at the same odd time. When she had inquired as to why he chose to come home at such a time, he arrogantly stated "So that your wish comes true every night" and left it at that, smirking haughtily.

If this were another night, Hermione would have curled into Draco's side and fallen into an uninterrupted sleep.

But, sadly, this was a Sunday night.

Sundays started out as any other day. Hermione woke to find that Draco had left her side in order to get an early start on his work in the study. She'd shower and go down into the kitchens to prepare breakfast for him; place the food on the kitchen table and watch it vanish, assuming it reappeared at a table positioned above it in his study.

Once he had his food, she'd tuck into a decent meal herself, thinking about what she'd do that day.

More often than not the day would find Hermione whiling away her time in the library or knitting in the den. Sometimes she'd write in the blank notebook Draco had supplied her with, emptying her soul into the pages. Once or twice she even tried her hand a drawing.

She never saw Draco throughout the day since he spent most of his time behind the closed door of the study or apparating in and out of the Manor.

When dinner time came around, she could often hear him entertaining other Death Eaters in the lounge. She avoided the general area during these hours, loath to encounter a stranger alone in the hallway. Draco was the only kind Death Eater she'd met so far, and probably the only one she'd ever meet.

Not that she was grateful being a person one could technically label a slave. Lord Voldemort's reign had brought the demise of Muggle-kind and Hermione had been captured like the rest of the Mudbloods and blood traitors. For whatever reason, Draco had seen to it that she would spend the rest of her days serving him and no one else.

The first few days had been a convoluted torrent of tears and misery as Hermione sat in her newly appointed room. She feared what Malfoy would have her do or if he had really just planned on torturing and killing her.

Imagine her surprise when he allowed her to virtually do as she pleased.

She had been suspicious, of course. Years of going to school with the Slytherin had given her enough experience to know how nasty he could be. But it seemed that the war had taught Draco Malfoy a thing or two, for he seemed to have come to the realization that he was not the invincible, untouchable Pureblood he had always thought himself to be. So, instead of risking Lord Voldemort's wrath by causing Hermione to rebel, he generally left her alone.

But, no, Hermione wasn't grateful for being a captive. She was, however, more or less appreciative of her captivator. Especially since one run-in with another Death Eaters several weeks ago told her as much as she wanted to know about how Voldemort's other supporters ran their households.

It had been sometime in the middle of the week. She had just ambled into the kitchen, her nose in a book, with the intention of starting dinner for Draco and his company, when she realized that Draco was already there.

"Granger," he nodded.

Hermione looked up, her ready smile vanishing when she saw that he wasn't alone.

A man called Dolohov stood with him. Clearly they had been in the process of getting drinks when she had entered.

The strange man's eyes slid down her form approvingly, causing her cheeks to burn. She placed her book on the counter and hurried behind the stove-topped island so he couldn't see her as well.

"Some girl you've got here," Dolohov grinned at Draco.

Draco's smile didn't meet his eyes. "Indeed."

"I wish my two Mudbloods were as nice to look at. They're as thin as unicorn horns and horribly dirty."

"Do you let them eat?" Hermione couldn't help her outburst. Draco gave a sharp shake of his head, but she continued anyway. "Do you let them bathe?"

Dolohov gently placed his glass on the table beside him and crossed his arms. "Nice to look at and a sharp tongue to boot. Though, you'll do well to mind your manners around me, girl."

Hermione's heart leapt and she turned back to her domestic activities.

"Why is it you let her wander freely, Malfoy?"

"A happy Mudblood is more apt to behave as I want her to," Draco replied indifferently. The implication, though, however carelessly stated, hung in the air between the two men. Dolohov snatched at it eagerly.

"I see. I guess that's one reason to keep them fed up."

Hermione shuddered. She didn't like being referred to as though an animal.

"But why all the books and possessions?"

"I don't believe that's your concern. The Dark Lord told us we could treat our Mudbloods however we wished."

Hermione glanced up, pretending to be chopping carrots, in order to see Dolohov's reaction.

He only shrugged. "I 'spose." He contemplated her for another moment. "She hung out with Potter and the blood traitor all the time, right?"

Draco made a noise in agreement. He didn't seem to like where the conversation was heading. Neither did Hermione.

"Bet they had their uses for her too. Bet all the Gryffindors did."

This statement, so obviously a baited remark, had just the effect Dolohov desired.

Hermione slammed the knife on the counter and glared at the pair behind the bar. "I was not the Gryffindor whore."

Draco closed his eyes in frustration.

"What did you say to me, girl?" Dolohov pulled his wand out and pointed it across the kitchen.

Luckily, the doorbell chimed, heralding the arrival of more Death Eaters. Draco stepped between Dolohov's wand and Hermione, who had backed against the refrigerator.

"I'll deal with her later," he gestured toward Hermione. "Right now, we have things to go over, Dolohov. I trust you can find your way to the lounge?"

Dolohov nodded and slowly pocketed his wand and went to greet the newcomers. Draco rounded on Hermione.

"Keep your tongue checked, Granger, or this could end badly for the both of us. I allow you freedoms no other person in your position could dream of, but shooting your mouth off to a dangerous man is not one of them."

Hermione lowered her eyes, hating that he was right.

"I'm going to keep them in the lounge tonight, because quite frankly, I don't like the way they behave around you. Send dinner up whenever it's ready and for the love of Merlin, don't come poking around for more trouble."

When he had gone, Hermione continued preparing the meal, certainly appreciating Draco Malfoy more than she had ever thought possible.

And, now, while she lay in bed, anxious of his return, she wished she could feel that same sense of appreciation. Sundays didn't end with snuggling next to him under the covers, listening to his breathing slow or feeling his heart beat beneath her cheek.

It had taken many months of this ritual, to get Hermione used to his presence next to her at night. He never did anything other than sleep. Occasionally, he'd talk to her about her day and answer her less risky questions regarding the new regime. Hermione even began to enjoy the nights spent with Draco close to her. She began to feel as though a tender understanding had been forged, and pretended that she wasn't a slave…that Draco was merely harboring her from the evils outside…

He never treated her the way Dolohov seemed to think he did. Except on Sunday nights.

Because although Sundays began the same way as the rest of the days, they ended quite differently.

Sunday nights were when the Death Eaters gathered at the Malfoy Manor with the expressed intention of becoming obscenely inebriated.

And while they seemed to find life worth celebrating, Hermione cringed every time she heard a crash and outbreak of laughter overhead.

After dinner, they'd apparate their antics to local pubs, leaving the house ringing in the silence they left behind.

And at 11:11 p.m. every Sunday night, Draco would stumble home, reeking of alcohol, with the notion that Dolohov's wayward ideas of Hermione were actually quite logical.

Every Sunday night was like the first Sunday night she'd spent in the manor: terrifying and painful.

Yes, Hermione hated Sunday nights. On Sunday nights, Draco became Malfoy and whatever love she could have imagined between them was smothered under his rough hands and Firewhiskey-laced breath.

11:11 p.m. came and went, and with Malfoy's absence, the anxiety already brewing in Hermione's chest magnified. She wasn't worried about his well-being; she was worried for her own. Because if Malfoy was as horrible as he was at 11:11, she had no wish to see him drunker at a later hour.

As the thought continued to taunt her, Hermione abruptly remembered that last Sunday night had been different.

Draco had returned quite balanced. He had slid into bed next to her just as if it was Thursday night. Curious as ever, Hermione asked him why he wasn't drowning in the smell of alcohol.

"Because I hate Monday mornings," he answered simply.

_So,_ Hermione thought,_ you hate Monday mornings and I abhor Sunday nights._

"Why?" She demanded.

Draco sighed. "Because, if you must know, I hate waking up to see you nervously regarding me from the other side of the bed. I hate remembering the night before."

Hermione had been floored by this revelation. She hadn't realized that he lived with the knowledge of what he had done to her the night before. She didn't realize that the ignorance he displayed every Monday morning was only attempted denial.

Now, she could only hope that this Sunday night would be the same.

12:00 a.m. glowed on her watch when the speck of wand light appeared down by the lane.

Hermione whimpered despite the fact that it was Monday morning.

The stench of alcohol burned in her nose when Malfoy apparated into the room. She closed her eyes and tried to pretend that she was already asleep, knowing it was a futile effort to save her dignity.

She listened as he stumbled to the bathroom and showered. Her breathing hitched when he returned and flopped into bed, his arm reaching around her, pulling her close.

Her eyes widened in shock when his lips met hers in a deep demanding yet gentle kiss, causing their breath to mingle in a fusion of Firewhiskey and mint toothpaste.

When he pulled away, he laid back and pulled her into an embrace, his body completely relaxed against hers.

"Draco?" She murmured feebly.

"Just sleep, Granger," she heard him slur.

"But—"

His eyes opened and in the moonlight Hermione saw how red and blurry they were.

"I told you," he stated matter-of-factly, "I hate waking up on Monday mornings pretending that nothing happened and that we should spend our days as such." He closed his eyes again.

Hermione felt herself begin to relax as his words sunk in.

"You're drunk, though."

"Indubitably."

"So, you could have restrained yourself all those other nights." It was hardly a question.

Draco reopened his eyes and gazed at her. "I doubt it."

"Why?"

"Because," he said, now extremely interested in the ceiling, "you didn't matter all those other nights."

"But what about the week nights? I seemed to matter then."

"Hell, I don't know, Granger." He sounded uncomfortable. "You _didn't_ matter…I never had to see you in the mornings."

Hermione frowned, not understanding.

"And the one time I decided to stick around, the first thing I saw was you, looking at me in such an ugly way." Draco's voice was strained now, like it pained him to remember. "You were disgusted with me and I with myself."

He stopped concentrating on the ceiling and turned his attention to her.

"You started to matter when I saw the Sunday night aftermath shadowed on your face."

He tucked a strand of hair behind her ear. "Now, please, sleep." He closed his eyes again and rolled over so his back faced her.

Hermione turned over his words in her head. Somehow, in the course of the year she had spent in Malfoy Manor, she had begun to matter to a Death Eater. She couldn't help the smile that tugged at her mouth. And somehow, a Death Eater had begun to matter to her.

She didn't know if she could begin to truly trust Draco's judgment when Sunday night came again.

But this Sunday night had been different, so she found herself hoping…

Meanwhile, she cuddled up behind the man sleeping beside her, believing that tonight was enough for now.


	2. Aftermath

_**Hahaha...so I'm just going to be a bad person and ignore homework...oh wait, I DID. And further my villainous procrastination by not updating my other stories first. Oy. I'm horrible. **_

**But, cheers!**

* * *

**Chapter 2: Aftermath**

_One year later…_

Hermione stared dully around the room while the Witch sitting behind an official desk across from her scribbled relentlessly away on a roll of thick parchment.

On the desktop, a set of golden scales sat, balancing perfectly, nothing on either side.

There were no walls to this room. Instead, built-in bookcases surrounded the silent pair, their occupants boasting titles such as _Magical Mentality_, _100 Common Wizarding Woes, _and Hermione's personal favorite, _1000 Essays on Schizophrenic Sorcery by Peter Brevity. _

The books were the only remarkable thing besides the odd scales. The floor was normal wood and the furniture—consisting of the desk and the small couch Hermione currently used—was all that filled the room. There wasn't even a fireplace, but that abnormality had been explained on Hermione's first day of entering the office. The lack of a fireplace discouraged "impulsive lapse of judgment" that would no doubt end in "several facility inquiries" and "much unnecessary hullabaloo".

Hermione wrinkled her nose as the Witch continued scratching away with her peacock feather quill. A _fireplace_ wouldn't cause "hullabaloo", _Floo Powder_ would cause "hullabaloo"…

And Apparation was out of the question. There were special charms placed not only on the room, but also on the building itself.

"What made you start with that story?"

Hermione removed her eyes from the books and rested them on the Witch.

"What?"

The woman leaned back in her seat, quill lying beside the now sealed roll of parchment, and crossed her arms. She scrutinized Hermione. Hermione stared tiredly back.

"Why did you choose to tell me about Sunday nights?"

Hermione felt a familiar shiver of apprehension wiggle down her spine. "You said to tell you about my life after the war."

A heavy pause met her statement. And then, "Yes. But usually my post-trauma patients start at the beginning, i.e. the day after Harry Potter lost."

Hermione winced at the Witch's bluntness. "You know who I am, I presume?" she asked icily.

"Of course I know." The other woman stood up and walked to the front of the desk and resumed her seat on its surface. "Hermione Jean Granger. Muggle-born, Gryffindor House. Outstanding in all of her O. save Defense against the Dark Arts. And," she added plainly, "friends with now deceased Harry Potter."

Hermione glared at the woman. "Not very sympathetic, are you?"

"I don't sugarcoat things."

"Clearly."

The Witch continued to watch her. Hermione began to feel uncomfortable, wishing the session would end. She asked another question. "What makes me post-trauma material, anyway?"

"Hermione," the Witch pinched the bridge of her nose, "You were in captivity for two years before You-Know-Who's downfall. You were a Death Eater's slave only two months ago."

"Draco's been cleared of charges since orchestrating Voldemort's demise!"

The Witch flinched. "Don't say that name."

"Why? He's dead. For good." She added for extra measure.

"Still, it is taboo." The Witch returned to her chair behind the desk, and Hermione noticed the scale tipping toward her and the couch. She smiled to herself.

"You are," the Witch continued, not noticing Hermione's grin, "a post-trauma patient because you were a slave, Hermione. A slave. You had no freedoms. You were property."

"I was treated wonderfully." Hermione felt frustrated. "I certainly look better than the other Muggle-borns you pulled from other Death Eater homes."

"Okay, you were well-tended property, but property nonetheless."

The Witch refused to humor Hermione's desperately hinted pleas. The scale now tipped toward her.

"You're here, because you cannot adjust to freedom after being held for two years. You're here because the Ministry has been generous enough to establish this program for just such cases."

"I'm not such a case."

"Then why, may I ask, do you feel compelled to remain with Mr. Malfoy when he is under tight surveillance? After he used you? After," the Witch reopened the parchment and scanned a few lines, "Sunday nights?"

"I told you, Draco's been cleared of—"

"All charges, yes." The Witch leaned forward and glanced at the scale now teetering back and forth between the two women. "Yet the Dark Mark still stains his skin. And his memory still stains your life."

Hermione clenched her fists. The scale swung and dipped once more to the Witch.

"I'm here to help you, Hermione. I'm here to aid you see past your last two years, to aid you in beginning a new life where you can function just as normally as you did in school."

Hermione leapt to her feet. "How can I when all my friends are dead?" she screamed at her interviewer. "How can I lead a "new life" when I hear their screams in my sleep and their cries for help when I'm awake? How can I," she was now leaning across the desk, yelling into the Witch's face, "Move on when there's nothing worth moving on to?"

"By trying," the Witch said simply. She had not moved when Hermione started hollering. She did not move when Hermione snorted in disgust and began pacing around the room, muttering to herself.

She waited until Hermione grew weary of her storming and sank back onto the couch, head buried in her hands.

"I will help you, Hermione. You just have to let me."

Hermione's answer was muffled by her hands and hair.

"Excuse me?" The Witch replied patiently.

Hermione looked up, and the Witch noted her wet, red eyes. "You'd help me by letting me go back."

"I don't think that's true. I don't think you believe it's true either."

"It is."

"Why?"

Hermione opened her mouth, but for once, couldn't answer. Instead, she flopped back into the seat and glared at the other woman.

"Why do you need to go back to Mr. Malfoy?" The Witch implored gently.

Hermione shrugged noncommittally.

"I think," the Witch said, "that you feel the need to return to Mr. Malfoy because you've grown to believe that his is the only home you have. You feel that your existence was marred only by other Death Eaters, that he was not so bad himself."

"Well, he wasn't."

"Maybe not. But you need to get your own life back." The Witch sat straighter and began conjuring more parchment. "Now," her tone became more businesslike, "I understand you're living in a modest flat in London?"

"Yes," Hermione answered dully.

"And you have a job?"

Hermione cringed. It wasn't what she'd call a career, but she hadn't been "qualified" for more harrowing job titles. "I work in a Muggle bookshop."

"You don't seem very thrilled about that. I thought you loved books."

"I do. I just wanted something better. Maybe in the Ministry."

"Very good," the Witch jotted a note down, "This is progressive indeed. What sort of work in the Ministry?"

Hermione shrugged. "I once wanted to work for the Department of the Regulation of Magical Creatures. Or Law Enforcement."

"Highly ambitious, yes," the Witch nodded, still writing furiously. "And any acquaintances?"

"I know a girl at the bookstore alright."

"Name?"

"Courtney."

"A Muggle?"

"Predictably."

The Witch fell silent as she finished her work. The balance was stable again.

"Now, I'm going to ask you again," the Witch laid her quill aside and folded her hands together. "Why did you start with an isolated event earlier in the session?"

Hermione felt her toes curl in annoyance. The scale shifted slightly toward the Witch. Hermione glared at it.

"Why do you have to use that thing?" She demanded, nodding toward the scale.

"You're avoiding the question."

"You're avoiding mine." It was childish, but Hermione couldn't find a reason to care.

The Witch sighed. "You know what it is, then, I take it?"

Hermione nodded, irritated.

"I use this Mood Swing to further analyze our conversation. If it tips toward me, I know I'm making progress. If it tips toward the patient, I know they're being difficult and avoiding the question."

Hermione sniffed and watched the Mood Swing fall closer to the Witch. "It doesn't seem fair. Shouldn't a patient choose when to reveal her thoughts to you without you knowing she has secrets to share?"

"Many feel that way, yes. But this speeds the process along."

"Sounds like a form of emotional extortion to me."

The Witch furrowed her brow. "Only when you're not cooperating. If you answer quickly and truthfully, we'd be finished this meeting much sooner."

Hermione sighed. "I don't know why I started there. It just seemed like the most prominent memory."

The Witch bent over her notes. "An immediate discharge of negative memories."

"No! It's a nice one." Hermione spat angrily.

"Nice when not laced with the suggestion of foul memories. You brushed over the first few Sunday nights. Why is that?"

Hermione gaped at the woman, unbelieving of her indifference and audaciousness. "I rather not discuss it." She silently cursed the Mood Swing as it fell toward her.

"But that's why we're here."

"As if you could make it plainer," Hermione muttered loudly.

The Witch chose not to merit Hermione's cheek with a response. Instead, she sat back in her chair and remained silent, occasionally glancing at her watch. "We're here on your leisure, Miss Granger," she said finally, voice filled with slight annoyance.

"Leisure?" Hermione scoffed. "This isn't leisurely time; I'm _supposed_ to be here."

"The longer we sit here though, the more time you take up."

"What's your excuse, then?"

"I'm getting paid," the Witch answered honestly.

"Oh, that's rich." Hermione was on her feet again. "I'm…_we're_," she waved her arm around above her head as if indicating a populace, "Mere money machines for you?"

"Not at all. But seeing as how I'm paid by the hour, I don't really mind sitting here for the rest of the day."

Hermione couldn't believe the other woman. She sat back down. "I began with Sunday nights because I wanted it known and _recorded_," she gestured toward the parchment, "that Draco Malfoy was not the Death Eater that tattoo made him appear to be."

"Why?"

"I don't know. Because it's the truth?"

The Witch reached into a desk drawer and pulled out a clipboard with single sheets of parchment attached. Hermione noted that the paper had the look of an application form.

"I think we can conclude things for the day," the Witch said after a few moments of jotting things down. "I'm diagnosing you with Stockholm Syndrome, Hermione. Do you know what that is?"

Hermione narrowed her eyes and felt a flush creep to her cheeks. "Yes."

"Then you know that these meetings will continue until I'm pleased with our progress."

"Yes."

The Witch finished filling out the parchment and tore it off. "This one stays with me. This," she ripped off a copy, "goes with you."

Hermione took it reluctantly.

"The only treatment I can see here, you should know, is indefinite separation. You are not to attempt contacting or seeing Mr. Malfoy. I plan to contact the Ministry officials surveying him to tell me if you try to see him." The Witch watched Hermione stand and walk to the door. "I'll give them written permission to stop you from trying."

Hermione froze, rigid, with her hand on the doorknob that unlocked beneath her touch. She remained still for a fraction of a second before muttering to acknowledge she heard the woman and exiting the room quickly.

Once outside, Hermione slammed the door bearing _Dr. Corinthia Connelly, Medi-Witch in Charge, Wizarding Psychiatry, Saint Mungo's Hospital for Magical Maladies and Injuries._

Upon reaching the visitor's entrance, she slipped through the cement wall and out into the London sun.

* * *

After spending two long, wonderfully mind numbing hours in a nearby Muggle pub, Hermione stumbled into her flat, laughing hysterically at nothing in particular.

She dropped her purse onto the sofa and jumped onto her bed, where she lay spread-eagle, laughing still more heartedly into her pillows.

The absolute nerve of that woman proposing that she, Hermione Granger, was suffering from Stockholm Syndrome was completely mental.

At this drunken pun of a Psychiatrist being mental, Hermione laughed harder than ever.

Without continuous increments of alcohol, though, the mood didn't last long. Soon, Hermione was sobered and miserable.

Stockholm Syndrome?

Pre-war Hermione would have jeered at the idea of herself ever developing such a syndrome. But, now, post-war—post-_trauma_—Hermione couldn't help but see what Connelly meant. And the admittance of Connelly's accuracy irked pre-war Hermione immensely.

Post-trauma Hermione tiredly berated her former self. Stockholm Syndrome was the only diagnosis that seemed to fit.

She had been a prisoner of Draco Malfoy's in the broadest sense of the term. She had been terrified…initially. And now she hated being away. She hated what other wizards said about him. He had helped rid the world of Voldemort for crying outloud!

And to be kept away from him…

Hermione didn't notice the tears now slipping down her cheeks. She was well used to it by now.

She had cried every night since being forcefully taken from the Malfoy Manor, even though the Ministry wizards had insisted they were liberating her. She didn't want liberating…she was already free.

Hermione cried every night, it seemed. Especially, she knew, on her least favorite nights. And tomorrow was Sunday.


	3. Sunday

**This one was a bit tough to write, especially the end. I wasn't entirely sure how to end it, given the day of the week it is. But I plan on continuing her actions and such in the next chapter in some manner.**

** Also, I apologize if it seems short, because it definitely is compared to the first two. Hope you enjoy :)**

* * *

Chapter 3: Sunday

Hermione stood, rooted to the spot, staring in horror down at Dolohov as he lay writhing at her feet, screaming insults and threats. Suddenly, Draco burst into the room, froze upon seeing the scene, but regained momentum almost immediately.

He jumped over Dolohov's body and ripped the encumbered wizard's wand from Hermione's limp hand.

"Granger, go." He steered her around the man on floor and pushed her toward the door.

"What are you going to do to him?"

Dolohov spat more curses and began to rise.

Draco spun Hermione around and physically thrust her from the room. "GO!"

As soon as she was in the hallway, Draco slammed the door shut and locked it magically. Hermione, still shocked, didn't move for several seconds. Then she heard a bang and a yelp of pain. But it wasn't Dolohov's voice.

She lunged at the door and clawed at the handle. "Draco!"

The men's voices mixed into an incoherent cacophony of agony while Hermione pounded her fists on the door, screaming…

"Hermione!"

Hermione opened her eyes. Her arms were crossed under her head and a strip of dried drool ran from the corner of her mouth to the clerical desk she sat behind. Someone was poking her shoulder urgently.

"Hermione, are you alright?"

"What?" Her tongue was thick and lethargic in her mouth, which was as parched as the papers spread haphazardly on the desktop.

"You were having a bad dream again."

Hermione lifted her head which spun threateningly from the still waning hangover she'd inflicted on herself the night before.

"Are you getting enough sleep?"

Finally, Hermione found the owner of her interrogation. Courtney Ilsley, her co-worker at _Amergin Aisling's Bookshop_, stood next to her, a concerned look on her face.

"Sleep? Yeah, sure," she brushed the comment off.

Courtney didn't look convinced. "It's 'cause it's Sunday, isn't it?"

Hermione glanced sharply at her friend. "What do you mean?"

"Well, you don't really seem to like Sundays…"

"You're being ridiculous. Sundays are a perfectly acceptable day of the week." Hermione stood and pushed her hair out of her face. She rearranged the numbers she had been going over before dozing off.

Courtney's skepticism didn't fade as Hermione sat back down. "Okay. I'll be on the floor."

Once the meddling girl had vanished into the fantasy section to help a bemused looking grandmother, Hermione allowed her head to fall into her hands.

She desperately wished for a reprieve from the nightmares…

She envied Courtney for her lack of memory.

Once Voldemort's downfall had made the headlines two months ago, Ministry Officials had deemed it necessary to perform clinical memory modifications on any surviving Muggles. The process had been extremely arduous, and many obstacles had arisen.

Memory modification had always been a complicated, capricious brand of magic that only the most skilled wizards and witches could perform, especially depending upon the recipient's health status.

Such horrific memories coupled with complete emaciation did not bode well for many Muggles receiving the treatment. There had been several hundred deaths as a result of the Ministry's attempts to reestablish the Statute of Secrecy Voldemort had long since destroyed.

Courtney stood among the successful cases. Hermione didn't know the girl's full story, obviously, given patient/modifier confidentiality, but she knew Courtney had been a victim. All Muggles had been. The ones who had attempted hiding away via underground groups or bunkers were always found. That was the thing. Their bunkers hadn't been equipped for magical warfare…

Besides, there were always the physical signs that someone had been a victim.

Occasionally when Hermione talked for long periods of time with Courtney, the girl would suddenly get silent and stare off into space with wide-eyed terror. But as soon as she went into this semi-coma of shock, she'd slip right back out and continue the conversation, unaware of her odd behavior.

Other times she'd frown in concentration, as though trying to remember something important, but as soon as she did, she'd gasp and attribute it to nightmares.

More often than not, though, Courtney would suddenly hug herself tightly and whimper, especially if a tall male with black, shoulder length hair entered the shop.

Such memories, Hermione knew, weren't totally escapable. And most of the time, she preferred knowing _why_ she felt or acted the way she did. Whereas if Courtney ever caught herself behaving oddly, she'd worry about what could be causing it.

But, there were times, like Sundays, when Hermione wished the Ministry had offered memory modifications to Muggle-borns. It certainly would have cut-back on the ill-fated attempts of self-modification that ran rampant immediately following Muggle/Muggle-born liberation. Dennis Creevy now had a permanent home in the _Spell Damage_ wing of Saint Mungo's…Hermione shuddered at the thought.

The Ministry of Magic had remained adamant that Muggle-borns should instead consult specialized Healers for treatment. Hermione rolled her eyes every time she thought of Dr. Connelly.

Yet, Hermione understood that the Ministry was still working on building itself up to the grandeur it had been during Fudge's initial reign as Minister. The new, albeit temporary, Minister was a business-like, capable witch named Alameda Dean, who spearheaded many of the restoration plans the Ministry currently worked on. This included reinstating Muggle-born bank accounts in Gringotts, reestablishing Goblins as the heads of Gringotts, appointing heavily armed, full-time Aurors to guard Azakaban and its prisoners (many of whom awaited death sentences), and, of course, creating the Muggle-born rehabilitation program at the hospital.

Alameda Dean was certainly capable, by all accounts. Hermione did not deny this. But she still couldn't help but feel bitter toward the pureblooded, Spanish witch. She hadn't directly felt the force of Voldemort's regime. She had been tucked away in Costa Rica, having been "vacationing" from Spain (one of Voldemort's captured countries), watching the mayhem from the safety of the protected island.

And she had whisked down upon the European countries as soon as Voldemort was dead, knowing full well that the government would need as much foreign assistance as possible. Hermione hadn't questioned why foreign countries hadn't helped during the siege—Voldemort's name spelled death for everyone. It was easy to fathom why no one had helped.

Hermione also wanted Dean to consider aiding Muggle-borns to find wizarding jobs, something the Ministry had yet to acknowledge, as far as she knew.

Because she hated working in the bookstore. She hated the mundane, predictable routine the Ministry clearly thought she'd appreciate when they stuck her there. She wanted to be in the thick of it all, knew Harry and Ron would have wanted to be as well.

Her eyes burned, but Hermione did not cry for her fallen friends.

Harry had fallen at the hands of Voldemort, failing to survive the Avada Kedavra for a third time.

Ron had wasted away in a cell of Azkaban with the rest of his family, blood-traitors that they had been.

She had no idea of Neville's fate. Luna had disappeared in the chaos following Harry's defeat.

Hermione knew long after her capture that they'd have all wanted her to survive. _She_ had wanted to survive.

She just didn't have any more tears left for them. They were never coming back.

* * *

Hermione watched her alarm clock.

11:00 p.m.

She was in her pajamas, sitting cross-legged on the bed, just staring.

Her eyes burned. She hadn't blinked in at least five minutes.

Her stomach snarled hungrily. She hadn't eaten since her lunch hour at the store.

11:01 p.m.

Courtney had waved good-bye, wishing her a pleasant evening. Hermione had sneered at the retreating girl's back.

11:03 p.m.

Hermione blinked and her eyes graciously thanked her. Her stomach continued its raging.

11:04 p.m.

What _had_ she eaten at lunch?

She had checked her phone messages when she got home, (a habit she hadn't broken yet) to be greeted by scavenging solicitors.

11:08 p.m.

"Hello!" A friendly woman's voice had cried, "We'd like you to consider taking our—. " Delete.

"This is Jerry Minley from your local traveling agen—. " Delete.

11:10 p.m.

Her fingers gripped the blanket beneath her.

She squeezed her eyes shut.

And opened them.

11:11 p.m.

The scent of Firewhiskey floated through the air. She put her head in her hands.

11:12 p.m.


	4. Notes of Woe

**So, Chapter 4 is finally here! Sorry about the wait guys, but school had a burst of hectic-ness. I hope you like this one, though. I made it a bit longer than the last one because I prefer when updates are nice and long :D**

**I got the title name from a line in the poem called "The Chimney Sweeper" by William Blake—a really good poem (there are two by the same name and author) which I recommend reading together. But that may be just 'cause I had to write an essay on them :D I thought the title sums up the content quite sufficiently.**

**The spell literally means Soul Destroyer (probably completely grammatically wrong) in Latin.**

**Enjoy!**

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**Chapter 4: Notes of Woe**

Each second that ticked away felt like being stabbed in the heart. The very organ in question pounded out the rhythm of her fear as her gasping lungs tried to steady the wretched song.

Sweat appeared on her forehead as she wrenched her hands and shuffled her feet. Her hands weren't long together, and they pushed through her hair, pulling out a few strands in their haste.

She kept up this mantra of sorts, feet tapping, heart thumping, lungs heaving, and hands wringing. The dismal melody only drowned out by the still echoing sound of Draco's screams ringing in her ears.

She kept her eyes fixed on the plush gray carpet beneath her nervous feet, not truly understanding how she'd managed to get to her room on her own.

Once the door had finally opened—no, exploded—Hermione had been thrown aside by the force of a powerfully dark spell that, later on, she would realize she had been lucky to escape. When she looked up from the floor, she watched Dolohov stumble into the hallway.

Hermione's lungs emitted a sob at the thought. She felt as though that even when she got herself under control, she still wouldn't comprehend why Dolohov hadn't attacked her where she lay.

Instead, he had barely looked in her direction as he struggled to run away from whatever he'd left in the library.

And when he was gone, Hermione could scarcely bare to know either.

But she had risen, and had taken the few shaky steps between her spot on the ground and the door now splintered into pieces at her feet. She had looked into the library, now a mess, and the man kneeling on the ground, staring into space.

She had approached cautiously.

Draco's eyes weren't right. They were wide and the pupils were but pinpricks. The light color of his irises gave his stare an even more disturbing look: it was as if his eyes had rolled into the back of his head. Yet he seemed to be quite aware and focused on whatever he was looking at.

His arms hung limply in front of him, his hands lying on his thighs. But his back was straight and rigid. His mouth was closed.

Hermione hadn't known what to do. She crouched in front of him and passed a slow hand before his field of vision. He blinked, but continued his silent watch.

"Draco?"

Her voice had seemed to lessen his paralysis, and his pupils began to dilate.

She had continued murmuring softly to him, while she checked him for any visible wounds. He hadn't even been bleeding.

Finally, he had come around enough to speak. His tongue seemed to work faster than his mind though, because his sentences were garbled.

"Granger, Dolohov'sspelleftswhereshe?"

Hermione remembered shushing him and trying to help him stand. He hadn't been able to hold his weight.

And now, as she sat on her bed, hands still in fervent motion, the memory still made her shudder and cry.

Draco's eyes had closed and he had slumped onto the floor.

Hermione remembered that she had had, graciously, enough presence of mind to go for help. Because, now she knew that if she had dawdled, Draco would have died.

And luckily she hadn't been the only one in the house. Draco kept a Half-Blood Healer in the Manor. In hindsight, Hermione now knew why.

Jalen Cadbury was thrity-four years old and oddly proud given the circumstances. He had arrived to the Manor only three weeks after Hermione had, loudly voicing his opinions on "Death Eater filth" and "You-know-who's cowardice". Despite his over-confidence, Hermione was strongly reminded of Kingsley Shacklebolt whenever she thought of Jalen. She had soon realized that he lived only because each Death Eater was required to have a Healer on retainer. Otherwise, she doubted Draco would have put up with the older wizard's cheek.

Hermione had left Draco's side reluctantly, but knew Jalen was the only one qualified to diagnose and treat the bizarre curse Dolohov had used. There was only one problem, and Hermione prayed as she ran to the Healer's room that it wouldn't stop him from doing his job.

Jalen hated Draco.

At times, Hermione almost believed she could feel the hatred physically, whenever she was in the same room as they. It was even more common for her to believe that Jalen hated the man more than Harry and Ron had. More than she had…

She understood the hate. What captive wouldn't want freedom? Three weeks into her lockdown, she had wanted to kill herself. Slowly, the thought of such a dramatic solution had dissipated. Jalen still raged. But he didn't want to kill _himself…_

"Jalen!" Hermione had panted as she finally reached his room.

The man looked up, startled. "What's wrong, Hermione?" He came quickly to her and steadied her. "Are you hurt?"

"I'm fine. But…Draco," she waved her hand in the direction of the library, "Dolohov—fought."

Jalen clicked his tongue. "I'm sure the Great Master handled the situation well enough."

Hermione flinched at Jalen's nickname for Draco. While sarcasm blunted the moniker, Hermione still didn't like the thought of having a master.

"He's seriously injured, actually. I don't know what Dolohov did to him…he left. Draco's not—not right." Hermione gulped.

Jalen snorted. He'd never liked Hermione's unethical tolerance of Malfoy.

Hermione knew this but wasted no time re-explaining her reasoning. "Come on, it's your job to take care of him!"

"Treating someone is not the same as taking care of them," Jalen muttered resentfully. But he started gathering supplies nonetheless and Hermione breathed easier.

Not even two minutes later, Hermione had led a still grumbling Jalen to the library, hoping Draco's situation hadn't worsened.

It had.

Draco had begun to convulse wildly, eyes wide, pupils again constricted.

Hermione gasped and dropped to the seizing man's side. Jalen followed suit, his healing instincts shoving aside personal animosity. "How long has it been since Dolohov performed the curse?"

Hermione wrenched her eyes from Draco's. "I think at least ten minutes?"

Jalen said nothing as he pulled out his wand—something he was only allowed to use for medicinal purposes—and began checking Draco's body. "Hermione, I need you to lie across his arms and torso."

She obeyed instantly, gently lowering herself so that her side covered his stomach. She leaned forward and used her arms to brace his right arm and her leg to brace his left. She felt sick to her stomach as he writhed soundlessly beneath her.

Jalen sat at Draco's head, which twitched back and forth. His eyes remained as wide as ever.

Placing his knees on either side of Draco's head, the Healer pulled a potion out of his bag. He used his fingers to open Draco's mouth and forced him to drink the potion.

The effect was immediate. Hermione watched as Draco's eyes changed back to normal and his body stopped shaking. She closed her eyes in relief.

Draco started screaming.

Hermione looked down at his face in horror. He screamed and screamed, absolutely still.

"What did you do?" She shouted at Jalen who was calmly rifling through his bag.

"Nothing, I'm not finished yet."

But Draco's screams were reaching unbearable levels, a scream that filled Hermione with terror and sung of every pain imaginable.

Without thinking, she ran from the room, ignoring Jalen's protests.

Which brought her to her current position.

She was still shaking, but her breath had quieted.

What kind of spell had Dolohov used? Had one just gone horribly wrong?

What was happening now?

Hermione couldn't move.

Jalen's eventually appearance brought with it a bittersweet end to her waiting. Now she would find out…

Jalen looked at her for a few seconds, his brow furrowed and his lips pursed—deliberating.

"He's alive," he finally said.

Hermione slid from the bed, and knelt on the floor. She shook in relief, now.

Jalen walked away.

"Thank you," she whispered.

She stood slowly, wanting to see Draco terribly. But at the same time, she did not want to put him into a position in which he'd feel compelled to recount the horror of the past few hours. She did not want to know what had made his eyes change, what had made him scream as though someone had been sawing through his chest and breaking each of his ribs one at a time…

The urge to protect claimed her resolve forcefully.

She made her way to his room, trying not to think too much. She didn't want to run away again, when he needed her.

At his door she listened for any sign of movement within, not intending to interrupt his sleep.

"You can come in, Granger," she heard him call. Of course he would know she was there.

She opened the door and sidled in, refusing to make eye contact.

He was sitting up in his bed looking, in her opinion, a little too frustrated. He was messing with his pillows and fidgeting—clearly not wishing to be there.

When she got to his bedside, she could take it no longer and looked at him. Really looked.

He looked perfectly fine. But exhausted.

She sat down and pursed her lips as he snatched a newspaper off the nightstand beside her.

"So," he began. He didn't get far. When he saw that silent tears were streaming down her face, his expression softened and he put the paper down. "Granger," he murmured.

"Don't." Hermione stood up and crossed her arms. She turned away. "You—you were dying."

He did not refute this. She was right, of course, as she always was.

"And I—it was my fault. I shouldn't have snapped like that. Dolohov—he said—he said things that, that," she stopped and faced Draco, "that made me want to die."

Draco narrowed his eyes. "What things?"

Hermione whimpered and shook her head. Draco brushed aside the covers and swung his legs over the edge of the bed.

"Don't, you're hurt…"

"Shut up, Granger." He stood up and made her sit down. "Granger, what things? I can forbid him from entering the Manor ever again."

"No you can't. You-know-who would want to know why two of his Death Eaters were at odds and I don't want that on you."

Draco remained silent as he considered her thoughts. "You're probably right. But that doesn't mean I can't beat the living he—" Draco gasped and clutched his side. Hermione was immediately on her feet.

"What's wrong? Do you need Jalen?"

"No," he gritted his teeth and sucked in a breath, "it's just residual stuff. I'm fine." He straightened.

"What did he do to you?" She whispered.

"_Animus Eversor_."

"I've never heard of it."

"Well, I should hope not. I invented it."

"You? But…what does it do?"

"I don't think you'll like it very much."

"I want to know."

Draco regarded her. "It destroys one's soul."

Hermione felt her stomach heave. She put her head in her hands. After a few minutes: "You're not…your soul is—?"

"Still intact, yes." Draco sat down beside her. "Fortunately, I have yet to work out the kinks. And luckily, it seems those kinks don't cause instant death."

Hermione didn't share in his weak smile. "How?"

He sighed. "I don't believe now is the time."

"Why not?"

"You don't give up, do you?"

"No."

"I started by researching the exact origin and abilities of Dementors."

Hermione gasped. Draco smirked. "Riveting, I know."

He continued. "I didn't just want to make a spell that would simply extract the soul, as a Dementor does initially. I wanted one that would eradicate the soul. One that would make it impossible for the owner to return…in short, a more complex form of Avada Kedavra."

Hermione watched him, horrified and enraptured by his words.

"After I learned about the Dementors, I went about the spell."

Hermione interrupted. "How does one make a spell?"

Draco eyed her, hesitant.

"It's not like I have a wand to make my own," she snapped angrily.

"Yes, but you managed to steal Dolohov's, if I'm remembering correctly."

Hermione felt her cheeks flush and she looked away. Draco continued as if she hadn't spoken.

"Making a spell is relatively easy, for brilliant witches and wizards. One simply has to find the right words."

"That's it?"

"You sound skeptical."

"I'm sorry; I just don't think a spell can be created just by muttering a few lousy words."

"But you _can't_ just mumble any old words. They have to be the right ones. Words are our most powerful weapons, Granger, even more so than ideas. Ideas can be wicked, hateful things, yes. But words are the catalysts that bring ideas into an existence everyone can see and feel."

Hermione thought about it. "So, you're saying that such a powerful idea—soul destruction in this case—can simply be achieved by voicing it?"

Draco nodded. "But only with words that work."

"I thought actions were more powerful than words."

"Ah, but in the case of wizard-kind, words _are_ actions."

"I'll agree with you there. Muggles need action to affect violence. But what you're saying doesn't explain wordless magic."

"Is it truly wordless?"

"Yes, you don't say it."

"Out loud, no. But you still think of the word. Our magic abilities allow the word to do just as much damage when thought of as it does when we say it aloud. It again relates back to words being actions."

"Muggles' words mean nothing, then."

"Not to wizards like the Dark Lord." Draco saw Hermione's enraged look and hastily continued. "Not in a literal sense, Granger…Muggle words don't mean the same as ours. Muggle words can't kill people."

"What about suicide?" She countered.

"Now you're just being difficult," he sighed. "Suicide has nothing to do with the nasty things some Muggles say to each other. The person insulted enough to contemplate such a drastic solution simply interpreted them a certain way."

"But that would mean the words still led to his death."

"But he could have thought otherwise. Granger, you can't escape something like Avada Kedavra once it targets you. If a Muggle insults another, the second could simply walk away and not bother to listen. Or, if it did affect him so deeply, he could have chosen to seek help. I'm saying words that can kill…they're a whole different breed. It's something only wizards can do."

Hermione knew he was right. Muggles couldn't kill someone directly just by telling him to go die. Wizards—they could kill just by uttering a single word.

She had never disliked her race more.

"What does your spell do to the soul, exactly?"

"Ravages it. Tears it to pieces so small they're unable to be put back together."

She closed her eyes, nauseated. "That's why you screamed like that."

Draco cringed. "Yes. But I will say it again, I'm lucky the kinks were still there. Had the spell worked properly, my soul would have died and I'd have felt little or no pain."

"Would you body still be alive?"

"Theoretically, yes. But I aim to make it so that the soul death brings about the body's death."

Hermione asked no more questions. Draco had been right. She wished she didn't know what had happened to him. She didn't want to know how Dolohov had come to know of such a spell—one Draco would have kept secret.

The quiet wore on. Draco eventually fell asleep and Hermione was left pondering how only a tortured soul could have created such evil.


	5. Simply a Test

**_Hey all! Sorry about such a horrible wait, but I'm amidst winter break now, so here is chapter 5 :D _**

**_I'm leaving for Egypt next week (OMG SO EXCITE) so I will be unable to update again during the break unless I find time in the next 6 days. So, we'll have to see if I get time during next semester to write more. Which, I know isn't exactly promising :/_**

**_But I hope you enjoy this chapter! Let me know your thoughts!_**

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**Chapter 5: Simply a Test**

_Present…_

The following morning arrived about three hours too soon in Hermione's opinion. She sat behind the desk at _Amergin Aisling's Bookshop_, idly twirling a strand of hair around her fingers. Courtney was assisting a mother bearing three screaming triplets. Apparently their thoughts of their mother's promised treat had sharply contrasted with her own. Promises of imagination and adventure were lost in loud protest and demands of ice cream.

Yet the ear splitting racket wasn't enough to shake Hermione from her stupor. She was too busy reflecting on the night before.

11:11 p.m. had come and gone—with it the phantom odor of Firewhiskey. Hermione had spent the next hour in heart pounding anticipation. She'd fallen asleep, awaking at her alarm, sullen and exhausted.

And now, after a restless night, she had to sit behind this desk at a dead-end job, listening to screeching four year olds howl about ice cream. Oh, she was just living the dream.

She rubbed her temples as Courtney finally ushered the children and their apologetic mother out of the store.

"Well, that was a treat," Courtney grumbled as she wound her way back through the aisles to the desk. "You okay?"

Hermione stopped her ministrations and looked at her Muggle friend. "I have another meeting with Dr. Connelly at three."

Courtney turned her head and pursed her lips in sympathy. "How much longer do you have to go to her? Wasn't your parents' accident two years ago?"

Hermione nodded absentmindedly as she recalled the lie she had told Courtney regarding her appointments with Connelly. Obviously, she hadn't been able to avoid the inquisitive girl's questions. Hermione did have to leave every few days at three. She had made up her parents' car accident on the fly. Once more, she envied Courtney's blessed inability to remember the war.

"Why don't you just not go? You always seem so miserable when you come back. Maybe if you didn't go, you'd move on easier."

"If it were only that simple, Courtney." Hermione glanced at her watch. "Well, I suppose I better go enjoy my own little slice of Hell. Talk to you tomorrow."

Courtney murmured a farewell. Hermione went into the back office to collect her things and then left through the back door. Once in the adjacent alley, she braced herself and Apparated.

In the lobby of St. Mungo's, Hermione took out her wand, as was protocol, and held it out to the wizard at the front desk.

"We won't be needing your wand today, Miss Granger," her smiled politely, "Dr. Connelly wants to see some of your spell work today."

Hermione frowned, suspicious. "But, she never notified me of this."

The wizard, named Phillip shrugged. "She's the boss. She came by not five minutes ago and told me to allow you clearance. None of our unauthorized wand-detector spells will affect you today."

Hermione hesitated only for a minute before nodding. "Alright, thanks Phillip."

Phillip smiled once more before turning to help direct a young mother with a squirming baby octopus to the Accidental Magic Reversal Wing.

Hermione walked to the Wizarding Psychiatry wing, looking down at her wand.

She still missed her old one. The one that had first chosen her all those days ago. But it had been destroyed by the Death Eaters before she had been assigned to Draco's home…

This newer wand had been issued to her four weeks after her "liberation". All surviving witches and wizards had been given new wands depending on their rate of physical and mental health improvement. Some never got one. This one she now carried was twelve inches, made of ivy, and contained dragon heartstring. Hermione liked it, but she wasn't confident in its abilities yet. Ivy was a capricious wood to use, even if "deceptively strong". Mixed with powerful dragon heartstring…well, Hermione just hoped it wouldn't explode in her face one day.

Continuing down the winding hallway, Hermione wondered why Connelly would suddenly want her to perform magic. Was it to make sure she was still adequately capable?

Hermione sneered. What a trip this woman was. If that were the case, Hermione couldn't wait to show her what she had.

But, then again, they had talked rather extensively about Hermione's career interests. Perhaps Connelly had decided to be helpful this session and observe whether Hermione could achieve a job in the Ministry.

Brightened by this thought, Hermione approached the familiar office door with more excitement than she ever had before and opened the door.

A lung piercing cold heralded her entrance into the office, cutting off her screams as a Dementor swept down from the ceiling.

Hermione threw herself instinctively to the side, narrowly missing the sinister creature. She held up her wand, all thoughts on a Ministry position, and screamed "Expecto Patronum" as the Dementor returned for a second attack.

A small wisp of white vapor appeared from her wand long enough to make the monster retreat back to the ceiling. It just didn't last very long.

The cold was unbearable. It crushed the breath from her chest and spread to her fingertips. Hands shaking, Hermione was finding it extremely difficult to retain her grip on her wand.

She could hear the screams of her dying friends, smell burning hair and flesh, hear high, cold laughter. Her vision was clouding behind her tears. The Dementor was almost on her…

The final blow came as she stared into the space where its eyes should have been…Draco's screams of agony as his own spell ravaged his body…

_Draco…_

"EXPECTO PATRONUM!"

A silver otter whisked from her wand tip and spiraled rapidly around the Dementor, which immediately evaporated into the air.

The warmth of the office returned with such a force, it nearly knocked Hermione over as she stood on shaking legs. A thick sheen of sweat had coated her body during the struggle. She managed to sputter thanks to her otter before it vanished after the Dementor.

Her mind caught up with her thudding heart. Dementors didn't just vanish…

The door behind her opened and Dr. Connelly entered, quill scribbling away as always on a clipboard.

"Good afternoon, Hermione."

Hermione watched, opened mouthed, as the doctor walked around her and seated herself behind her desk, clearly unaware of what just happened in her own office.

"Um, maybe that paper is really, truly important," Hermione panted, "but did you not hear me screaming?"

Dr. Connelly looked up and set her quill down. "Of course I did. You did very well, Hermione."

Hermione stuttered into silence, not trusting herself to speak. She was sure only obscenities would come out if she dared open her mouth.

Dr. Connelly went back to writing while Hermione composed herself.

"Excuse me?"

"I said you did very well."

"I know I did! If I hadn't, I'd be a soulless meat suit on the floor!" She was shouting.

"I assure you that you would not be a soulless anything, Miss Granger. Now, please sit down and stop yelling at me for once."

Hermione sat down, but she did not stop yelling.

"What are you playing at?"

"That Dementor was simply a test, dear."

"A WHAT?"

"You're still yelling." Dr. Connelly stood up and walked to one of her many bookshelves and pulled down a thin volume. She walked to Hermione and handed her the book.

"That is the newest volume published by the Ministry since the Dark Lord's defeat. It describes all practices the Ministry is now instilling, including its new creature simulation program. If you turn to page forty-seven, you will find a detailed section denoting all the elements of the fake Dementor you just defeated."

Hermione stared at the book in her hands. _The Ministry's Activities: The Everyday Wizard's Guide to His Government _gleamed up at her in gold letters on a beautiful scarlet background. She flipped to page forty-seven.

Ten minutes later, she had completed the chapter.

"That wasn't a real Dementor."

Dr. Connelly shook her head in agreement. "Precisely."

"And it wasn't a boggart."

"Not at all."

"It was just magic illusion?"

"Indeed."

As shaken and angry as she was by Connelly's deception, Hermione could not help but admire the magic she had just witnessed. It had no doubt been extremely dangerous to tamper with the elements in order to create such illusions in a way that they functioned just as the real thing. And by the contents of chapter eleven, it wasn't just Dementors that could be mimicked.

"When? How did they accomplish this?"

"They developed this brand of magic secretly. The Minister of Magic was working in Costa Rica with several foreign witches and wizards. It was already underway before the Dark Lord even took over. It was, naturally, accomplished through hard, disciplined work."

"And I was a test dummy?"

"No, well, here maybe. But it has been used on others before you. We wouldn't take untested material and just use it on anyone, Hermione."

Hermione brushed her hand through her hair as her brain tried to work with all this new information.

"This is why you allowed me a wand today. Why didn't you tell me that we would be fighting Dementors today?"

"I wanted to keep it as realistic as possible, Hermione. One doesn't normally get a memo telling them a Dementor will be waiting to ambush them in their psychaitrist's office."

Hermione narrowed her eyes but ignored the witch's sarcasm. "So you really just wanted to keep me on my toes?"

"Yes, among other things. I wanted to see your magical abilities to make sure they're not behaving in any way that I might deem dangerous to yourself or your surroundings. Also, this will make it easier for you to find a more fulfilling career, should you be offered the chance."

Hermione nodded. At least some good came out of her terrifying experience.

"On a more psychological note, however," Dr. Connelly continued, "how did the Dementor make you feel?"

"You mean other than cold, soulless, and unhappy?" Hermione asked icily.

The doctor nodded.

"Well, it was terrifying, to see a creature you haven't seen in over a year appear in presumably safe place. I must admit, I didn't think I'd be able to get rid of it after having been out of practice for so long."

"Naturally. That is why I was so thoroughly impressed. The last post-trauma patient we attempted this with did not succeed as quickly as you did. He needed assistance from me before the Dementor vanished. The experience did, however, motivate him. He's going to be working on his defensive spells more now."

Hermione nodded as the doctor continued writing, surprised that they were having a decent conversation with one another.

"Can I ask you a question, doctor?"

"Yes."

"Will you refer this to the Ministry? My handling of the situation, that is?" Hermione crossed her fingers in her lap as Dr. Connelly contemplated her from across the desk.

"I think I can do that for you, Hermione."

Hermione could feel her smile spreading down to her toes. Finally, maybe she could have the life she dreamed of in Hogwarts…

"I just need one more question answered for the record and I can send this off to the Ministry by the end of the week."

Hermione nodded enthusiastically. "Sure!"

"What was your happy memory?"

Hermione blinked.

Dr. Connelly smiled. "Your Patronus charm memory."

Hermione swallowed. "That I might—because you wanted to see my magic—be getting a better job. One I always wanted."

The scale sitting so motionlessly on the doctor's desk dipped away from Hermione, taking her hopes and happiness with it.

"Hermione, what was your memory?"

Hermione pocketed her wand and stood up slowly.

The witch wrote down one final note. "I see."

She didn't stop Hermione as she walked toward the door.

With her hand on the doorknob, Hermione stopped and asked: "My memory was recorded on my performance sheet?"

"I'm afraid so."

Biting her lip to impede the tears, Hermione opened the door and left without another word.


	6. Flashbulb

**I present chapter 6. School is out for the summer guys. That means: No more essays of 5-6 pages in length. No more essays of 15 pages in length. No more oral reports or presentations.**

**Only simple, blissful summertime.**

**And Dramione.**

**Don't hate me too much 3**

**PS this chapter gets a little violent, just so you know.**

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**Chapter 6: Flashbulb**

_Present…_

Hermione did not return to the bookshop once her session with Dr. Connelly had ended.

Nor did she go back to her apartment.

She did not go somewhere that Connelly would never find her. In fact, this would be the first place that the frigid witch would look.

But Hermione did not care who saw her in that moment. She needed solace…needed to see…

She regarded the high, wrought gate in front of her. It loomed over her just like it had on the first night she ever laid eyes on it. Not even against the crisp, blue sky did its evil diminish.

She sucked in a breath and marched forward, determined to get as far as she could before whoever she knew was watching her put a stop to it. She stopped a foot in front of the gate. Through the bars she could see her intended destination, somewhat hidden by the weeping willows swaying in the breeze.

The Manor was still grand, despite its lack of upkeep.

Hermione stared at the overgrown hedges and the leaves piling up around the pathways. Ivy was creeping under the lower windows. The house looked dusty.

Hermione reached out slowly, praying that there were no spells protecting the gate. As her skin brushed the cold metal, Hermione felt an electric shock as memories flashed into her mind. This wasn't magic though, it was her doing…

_Two years earlier…_

"No!" Hermione was screaming. Her throat was on fire. She was coughing up blood from the amount of shrieking she had been doing for the past three hours.

Another Death Eater appeared and joined the tustle. Hermione gasped as someone punched her stomach. She fell to her knees. Someone spat on her and knocked her all the way down. Struggling, Hermione continued screaming. She called names, hoping for help that wasn't going to come. She cried out for friends who had already died, causing the Death Eaters around her to laugh.

"They're all dead sweetheart. Why don't you just stop screaming and we can have fun."

A hot, excited hand slipped beneath her shirt. Hermione instinctively lashed out with her hand, delighting when her nails found flesh. The offending Death Eater yelped and pulled away, clutching his arm.

"You little bitch!"

He kicked her face. Blood poured from her broken nose.

Another Death Eater ripped his mask off and grapsed a fistful of her hair. She was sobbing now, sure she was going to suffocate as she gulped down what air she could.

"You see this?" He asked haughtily, shoving the mask in her face. "This means we own you, Mudblood."

He pushed her away. "Someone pick 'er up and shut 'er up."

"_Silencio!"_

Hermione's screaming stopped but she could still feel her throat reacting. Someone hauled her to her feet. "On you get."

Hermione whipped around and smacked the man holding her arm. Blinded by fear, rage, and tears, she began limping away, momentarily forgetful of the wands pointed at her. She hit the ground again before she made it three feet.

"Enough of this." A pair of feet appeared before her eyes where she lay, prostrate on the ground. She flailed only when he started dragging her by the hair.

In this manner, they began to march.

Soon it dawned on Hermione that the less she flailed, the less it hurt. But the less she flailed, the less she wanted to fight altogether. The pain of her entire body was demanding for release and her eyelids were trying to oblige. Thankfully, the man switched his grasp from her hair to the collar of her shirt. A lot less painful.

When she stopped struggling completely and hung deadweight in his grip, the man laughed down at her. "Bout time you gave up." He dropped her and she leaned against his leg, gazing through half-lidded eyes at the ground. She cringed only slightly when his hand brushed gently over her head.

"How 'dya manage that one?" The Death Eater she had smacked earlier was back. She recognized his shoes.

"Just had to wait it out," the second one replied.

Death Eater one grunted. Then he stooped down and lifted her chin to look her right in the eye. "Where she goin'?"

"Malfoy wanted her."

Something stirred in Hermione's head.

"_Lucius _wanted _her_?"

"No, idiot, Draco did. Lucius fled, remember?"

"Oh yeah…prat."

Hermione linked the names and implications. She was going back to the Manor. Where she had been tortured by Bellatrix. Where the Malfoys had looked on greedily.

The fight came back.

She was on her feet faster than even she realized, running faster than she physically should have been able to. A spell ricocheted into her back, and on the ground she went again. This time, the Death Eater picked her up and put her over his shoulder. She kicked, screamed in silence, punched, bit, and clawed.

Nothing stopped the troupe as they carted her up a dirt path.

Then: The Gates.

Hermione gasped as they unlocked it and filed through. She felt the man carrying her tighten his grip around her bruised waist. She pulled and pulled, wanting to kill each of them, raising objections no one could hear. And then the gate, that had been becoming smaller and smaller as they moved away from it, slammed shut. The resounding clang echoing in her ears as they approached the doors.

One of the Death Eaters free of her constant pummeling knocked twice on the massive doors.

Hermione heard them open, watched the dirt path beneath her become marble floors, and saw the doors close. Then her body met the floor and her former captor made sure to tread on her fingers as he stepped over her. She listened as their footsteps faded away into a distant portion of the Manor, letting the cold marble sooth her battered form.

She went unconscious.

_Present…_

Hermione jerked her hand back from the gate. Sighing she inched as close to it as she could without touching it, peering through the bars, searching for a sign of life.

Several minutes ticked by as she gazed at the door of the Manor. She didn't realize that her hands had found their way back to the gate. Her knuckles were turning white as she clenched the bars, her face pressed as far between two as it would go.

She desperately wanted to call out his name, anything that would make him at least look outside. She wanted to, but her mouth wouldn't work.

Instead she stood silent vigil, entreating with the house to let Draco walk outside, look outside, see her, come to her.

Her heart lurched as the door began to open. She pushed closer to the gate, holding her breath, willing the person on the other side to come all the way out.

He did.

She couldn't help the moan of longing that escaped her lips as Draco walked out onto the terrace of his Manor. He looked fine, just bored.

Meanwhile she was all but digging a tunnel under the gate to be with him.

Suddenly, a hand slammed over her mouth and she felt herself being Apparated away.

When her head stopped spinning, Hermione saw that she had landed outside her apartment. A note floated through the air where her unknown abductor had been only three seconds ago.

She held out a shaky hand and caught it.

Dear Miss Granger,

This is your first warning. If you return to the Malfoy Manor anymore, my supervising staff on site will take more drastic measures to ensure you do not continue to do so. You will report to my office tomorrow at three rather than the day after. We will discuss this then.

Best,

Dr. Connelly

Hermione wasn't sure which hurt more: her phantom bruises or her bleeding heart.


	7. Day One

**Oh yeah, next chapter. More Dramione. Less Connelly. (I know some people are getting annoyed with her, but think how bizarre it would be if I suddenly stopped writing her. There'd be little plot left.)**

**Again, this chapter is darker, so be warned. There isn't anything graphic, but there are highly suggestive themes.**

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Chapter 7: Day One

_Two years earlier…_

Hermione was vaguely aware of the still cold marble floor as she came to. She didn't move, fearing her already jarred body would break entirely if she did.

She heard far off voices and barks of nasty laughter echoing from where the Death Eaters had retreated to. She smelled her own blood and sweat.

She began to shiver.

Everyone was dead, so why wasn't she? Why didn't they just kill her already? There was nothing left to live for. Harry was dead. Ron and the other Weasleys, if not dead, were surely captured by this point.

Hagrid was dead. McGonagall was dead. All dead.

A few tears escaped her closed eyes and mixed with the scratches on her face. Maybe if she just stayed here, they'd leave her alone to die.

Footsteps heralded their return. She stayed motionless, even when one of them picked her up by the scruff of her shirt again.

"You sure you wanted this one, mate?" It sounded like Goyle. "After all the crap she and her git friends put us through?"

Hermione tensed under his rough grip.

Draco Malfoy sneered. At least, she knew he was, given the tone of his answer.

"That's the point, imbecile. Why not have my fun with her?"

Everyone in the foyer snickered darkly. Goyle let Hermione drop to the floor.

She wouldn't have screamed. But when her wrist snapped on impact, her eyes flew open and she sobbed while cradling her unmoving hand.

The snickering turned to howling merriment as the Death Eaters filed past her into the night air. They all disapparated.

After the final departing crack had sounded, Malfoy's feet appeared before her. Funny, despite the pain, she was really starting to loathe seeing peoples' feet.

He bent down just far enough to pull her chin up to look at him.

"Granger," he smirked down at her. "Finally we meet in the proper conditions."

Hermione jerked her face away from his touch. He straightened and crossed his arms.

"What to do with you? I went through a lot of hell convincing the Dark Lord to let me take you. You would have ended up with Dolohov, I imagine. Or in Azkaban."

"Am I supposed to be grateful for your chivalry?" Hermione hissed through grit teeth. The pain in her arm was killing her.

Malfoy knelt down to look her in the eye. "I don't give a rat's ass what you are, Mudblood. You're here now, under my roof, and I demand respect. This isn't Hogwarts…Potter and Weasley can't save you—oops."

The slow, malicious smile that crossed his face made her shake with rage. "You son of a bitch!" She screamed in his face.

In hindsight, Hermione recognized the stupidity of spitting in the bastard's face. At the time, it had made her feel better, being able to impart a huge sign of disrespect onto him.

Malfoy reacted quickly. He grabbed her already shattered wrist and pulled her up as he stood. She shouted in pain, gasping as he began carting her down the hall. She could barely stay standing.

"Come on," he snapped while yanking her along.

Soon they came to a room. After pushing her inside, he closed the door behind them. The clicking lock was quite possibly the worst thing Hermione had heard all night.

"Please," she whispered into the carpet, "Just kill me."

"That would be the kind thing to do, Granger. I'm not feeling particularly generous at the moment."

He picked her up and placed her—dropped her on a bed. He regarded her for a long while.

"You're filthy."

Hermione, too preoccupied by her current location in relation to him, didn't say a word.

Malfoy pointed his wand at her and she closed her eyes, sighing in relief. At least she could be away from it all.

But instead of fast death, a warm breeze blew over her, and when she opened her eyes, she was clean again. No dirt, no blood, no sweat. Her wounds weren't quite healed, but they weren't bleeding either. Her wrist still throbbed angrily. She couldn't move her hand. She didn't want to ask to be fixed.

He wouldn't do it anyway.

And then he sat on the bed beside her.

And suddenly she really wanted to die.

Because this could not go where she feared it was.

It couldn't.

Logic said no.

Then why was he suddenly closer. Glaring in her face.

His breathing had quickened. It smelled faintly like Firewhiskey…but no amount of alcohol would be blamed for his actions today.

She whimpered. He groaned deep in his throat in response.

As soon as his hand brushed her skin, Hermione began flailing. It didn't amount to much, given the ache her body felt. The pure exhaustion her mind anguished under. Everything was screaming at her to give up, just stop. Deal with it. Lose consciousness. Not care.

Everything but the thought of her life before this.

She screamed and screamed. Probably inflicted bruises. Thought for certain the cut from her nails would scar his cheek.

It didn't matter.

She lost anyway.

_Present…_

Hermione sat up, covered in sweat. Her voice was hoarse when she tried to gasp out loud. Maybe she had really been yelling?

She stumbled to her bathroom just in time to vomit into the tub. She curled into a ball on her rug, shaking.

She hadn't dreamt that in a long time. Hadn't been sick either.

She closed her eyes and tried to slow her racing heart. She felt violated all over again. And the fact that it had been Malfoy, the man she had gone to see that day, made it worse. He had gotten better. It hadn't lasted long after that night.

She staggered to her feet and brushed her teeth. She found her way back to her bed and collapsed into the pillows. Glancing at the clock, she saw that she had two hours before her impromptu appointment with Connelly.

The fear of the nightmare was replaced with sheer rage.

She wasn't going. She didn't care if Connelly showed up on her doorstep. She'd just slam the door in her ugly, presumptuous face.

Hermione drifted back into sleep, thanking the gods that Connelly couldn't invade her dreams.

_Then…_

Hermione didn't know when it was exactly that she decided to start eating again. She thought perhaps it was when she thought killing herself another way would be less painful and dramatic. She gratefully bolted down the breakfast waiting on her bedside table.

She had lost count of how many weeks it had been since her first night in the Manor. It had been long, that's all she knew.

Malfoy hadn't bothered her anymore after that. He simply reverted to being the Malfoy she knew from school. Verbal abuse interspersed with the occasional shove. It was like nothing had happened.

Only everything had.

Hermione didn't speak to him. She didn't throw back witty rejoinders about his intellectual capacity like she once did.

She was below that. She bowed her head and moved along quickly whenever she chanced to meet him in the halls of his home.

She kept quiet when he spoke to her. Her eyes remained dead and unfocused while she stared at her feet.

She shook violently whenever she did something wrong, afraid he might find out. He never said anything if he did. He virtually left her alone. He didn't purposefully seek her out to victimize her.

Yet every move she made was made cautiously. She did not want to displease him.

But she did not go out of her way to please him. She was not that far gone. Yet.

She cleaned here and there where he demanded cleaning. She made food. She ambled around the Manor. She read books.

One night he wordlessly handed her a blank book and a pen.

She took it and hurried away, never once looking at him.

His shoes were becoming more recognizable than his face.

Hermione began to settle into this life. She did not accept it. It wasn't really hers. She refused to believe that this was all she had left.

But it became…tolerable.

Slowly she did not live in fear, but rather caution.

If she did not do anything unreasonable, it wasn't too much to hope that her day would go by undisturbed by Malfoy.

All was well as it could get for a slave in Voldemort's world.

And then one Monday evening, Malfoy posed a request.

A demand, really.

"You're moving rooms tonight, Granger."

Hermione dropped her fork and almost looked up into his face. She quickly averted her eyes to the chandelier.

"Where will I be going?" Asking "Why?" was out of the question.

"You can sleep in my room."

Sweat broke out over her arms and face. Panic began to take over.

"Why?"

"Because ."

Hermione stared down at her plate, shaking slightly.

She heard Malfoy sigh and his chair slide across the dining room floor as he stood up. She wrung her hands together, furiously trying to come up with a reason to stay away from his rooms.

She saw his shoes next to her seat.

"All I ask is that you sleep in my room. That is all."

Hermione froze in her seat. She whimpered in spite of herself.

Another sigh. "I'll see you at ten. I'll come get you if you're late." Momentary silence. "Please don't be late."

He left the room quickly.

Hermione's heart was slowing down in relief but her overly analytical mind was racing. _Please_ don't be late.

Please?

What did that imply?

Was he trying to rectify himself? Did he not want to be pushed into physical violence? He would surely revert to using force if he had to. He wasn't frail and wimpy in the least.

Please?

Hermione looked up at the clock. It was nine now. She had an hour to decide which road to take. She wanted to throw up.

She ran to her room.

Sitting on the bed, Hermione stared around. There wasn't anything special to her room. It was painted dark green. The carpet was gray. The bed décor was also gray. She snorted a little at the color choices.

The adjacent bathroom was a small shower and a toilet and sink.

That was all to her room.

Nothing to hold personal belongings, not that she had any. Her clothes were always ready for her when she woke up in the mornings. The small table next to her bed was only big enough to hold the journal she still hadn't written in.

She picked up the journal and turned to the first page.

She frowned at it and wrote: _Please, God, help me._

Somewhere in the house, the clock struck ten.

Had an hour truly passed?

Did she want to risk his wrath by not showing up?

Hermione pulled in a breath and stood.

On the last chime, she found herself standing outside his door.

It opened swiftly, Malfoy grimly ready to leave. His expression changed when he saw her. "Good."

He backed out of the way to let her through. She glanced nervously around the room and inched forward. No tricks were to be found.

She stood in the middle of the room awkwardly, wondering what to do next. Malfoy glided past her and got into the bed. He looked at her expectantly and patted the empty space beside him.

She went rigid and shook her head.

"Don't be difficult, Granger," he warned.

She pursed her lips and kept her eyes down as she shuffled to the opposite side of the bed.

"Why aren't you wearing bedclothes?"

Sure enough, she had forgotten. She felt her cheeks flush as he crawled over to her. He kneeled so that they were face to face.

"There should be clothes in the bathroom. Unless you really want to sleep in jeans of all things."

Hermione jumped on the chance to get away. Once in the bathroom she sat on the toilet and put her hands in her face. Breathing deeply, she forced herself to relax. _Look at this logically. Clearly, he just wants to sleep. He wouldn't tell you to put different clothes on if he wanted anything else._

Hermione looked in the cupboard for clothes. She found slacks and a nightshirt. They fit well enough…they just smelled like him.

She re-entered the bedroom where Malfoy was reading a paper. He looked up. "Right. Now. Sleep?"

Hermione nodded, refusing to meet his eyes as she crept onto the bed, ready to fight again if she had to.

"You will get cold if you don't get under the blanket."

Hermione bit her lip and slipped under the cover, acutely aware that that was where he was.

"Great, that simple process only took twenty minutes." Malfoy turned out the light and Hermione froze, waiting for a wayward hand.

Nothing happened. She felt him shuffling around as he got comfortable. And then he sighed into a pillow. And it was quiet.

She did not expect sleep to come. Not when she was practically lying on her enemy. He was doing this on purpose, she was sure of it.

She turned toward him, knowing that if she faced the other way he'd be able to surprise her faster. She couldn't see anything but the faint glow of his hair in the starlight coming from a window.

At some point, without her realizing it, he had turned away from her, dipping the bed just enough that she ended up against his back. She stared at where his head was with wide eyes, praying he wouldn't react to her unplanned touch. He slept on.

Her eyes began to droop. She did not pull away for fear of awakening him.

It was warm here.

She relaxed and turned over slowly, making sure her back stayed against his.

Sleep came soon.


	8. Determined

**Woot! Chapter 8! Hope you guys enjoy! A little behind schedule, but not too much :) **

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**Chapter 8: Determined**

Hermione glared at the clock that now read 3:10 p.m.

She was waiting.

And when the clock read 3:15 as loud crack echoed around her apartment. A letter drifted to the floor at her feet.

Hermione did not hurry to unroll the parchment. She knew what it would say.

Indeed:

Ms. Granger,

You are fifteen minutes late. Please hurry to my office immediately or, if you find yourself in trouble and in need of assistance, please send word and I will have someone collect you.

Dr. Connelly

Hermione wrinkled her nose at the script. She had no intention of budging. She wasn't going to see that woman today. Not after yesterday. Not after she had stopped Hermione from seeing Draco.

And she had a plan to keep from seeing Connelly today. Now, she only had to wait for the person no doubt coming to "collect" her.

Sure enough, at around 3:45, another loud crack sounded from the hallway outside her apartment. Almost immediately, a knock followed.

"Ms. Granger? Please, may I come in?"

Hermione stood slowly and made her way to the door. She opened it and looked at the young, nervous wizard waiting on the other side. He looked relieved upon finding that she wasn't in danger.

"Ms. Granger, I'm here to—"

"I'm sick." Hermione cut him off, and this time he looked closely at her.

"Oh, I'm terribly sorry. Shall I tell the doctor that you wish to reschedule?"

"That would be nice." Hermione purposefully blinked slowly and sniffed.

The wizard nodded, wished her well, and disapparated.

It was a childish, fool thing to do. Hermione waved her wand over herself and her look of horrible illness evaporated, leaving her formerly deadened, sleepy eyes only with only slightly dull appearance.

She was glad that the young man, who looked as if he was only eighteen or so, hadn't checked to make sure she wasn't using magic to conceal herself. She was sure Connelly would have seen past that, but she didn't think the woman would come calling herself. She wasn't that caring.

A final letter appeared a few minutes later, telling Hermione to get well soon and to come in when she felt better.

Hermione snorted. Maybe she could use this as an excuse to stay permanently away from Connelly. After all, she never felt better around that witch.

She looked around her apartment and bit her lip. Should she chance it? It hadn't even been twenty-four hours since she had been caught by Draco's gate. Surely, people would still be there watching. She'd only get caught and hauled to the hospital to talk to her doctor.

Hermione ran a hand through her hair. And she couldn't very well hurt anyone if they tried to stop her. They were only doing their jobs.

"Why does life turn out like this?" She asked the empty apartment.

When no one answered, thankfully, she grabbed her coat and keys and marched out of the door.

In the taxi ten minutes later, Hermione silently berated herself. Why hadn't she just taken the Muggle approach yesterday? Even if someone had been watching the house, they wouldn't have been particularly interested in Muggles. And Apparation most likely tipped watchmen off sooner.

She watched the towns pass by and slowly transition to empty countryside. With each tree that whipped by the window, Hermione became more and more fidgety.

What if he sent her away?

He would.

He'd say she had no business being there…she'd just get into trouble.

He'd say he was a dangerous wizard. The Ministry is watching.

And she'd say to shove it before falling into his arms.

The sun had started to set when the taxi driver pulled into the lane of Malfoy Manor. Hermione's gaze darted around the hedges, trying to see if anyone was there.

_Idiot…magic_.

She shook her head clear of anxiety and paid the driver. "Thank you so much for driving me," she smiled, clambering out of the car. Once he had disappeared around the corner, Hermione went to the gate. A man appeared beside her.

"Excuse me, but this is a watched area. Your business?"

Today seemed to be lucky.

"I'm here to visit Draco Malfoy. He was a school acquaintance."

The man furrowed his eyebrows. "Surely you know the story of this man?"

"I know it."

"Then surely…" The man stopped and chewed his lip. "Does he know you?"

"Yes, of course."

"How long are you planning to stay?"

_Forever_. "Only a few hours. I have to go to work tonight. I just wanted to give him a friendly face. He's got to be bored."

The older wizard nodded. "Fine. Visitors are permitted. But I must ask you to leave your wand with me. We cannot risk it."

Hermione handed her wand over without complaint. "Thank you."

She stepped back as the man unlocked the gate. "Please, try to be done by seven. It's four now."

Hermione nodded. She stepped through the gate and began walking to the porch. She didn't look back at the wizard. She was shaking in relief and excitement.

Again, the what-if's began rolling around her brain. What if he doesn't answer? He's going to send me away. He won't like me anymore. What-if he hurts me?

Hermione shook her head, refusing to believe the last thought could be true at all.

Suddenly, the door loomed before her. She wished she had her wand…

She knocked, and the door opened.

_Then…_

Hermione cried.

He hadn't done that to her since she first got here.

She knew she shouldn't have slept here. The whole week had passed by with no incident. She had slept, he had slept. It had been comfortable.

But tonight, Sunday…had changed.

She looked at his sleeping back nervously, debating on whether to run back to her old room.

The scent of Firewhiskey tainted her tongue and nose.

He had been drunk. Hideously drunk.

She rolled over, wincing, and tried to go to sleep. She stayed as far from his body as the bed allowed.

She wished she'd just die.

_Now…_

Draco looked at her for several seconds before pulling her inside.

She squeaked as he grabbed her shoulders and pushed against the now closed door.

Gray eyes bore into hers.

Suddenly, his lips were on hers, kissing her so forcefully, Hermione could only blink in surprise. And then her arms were around his neck and his were around her waist, pulling her as close as he could.

Hermione returned the kiss happily, letting her body meld into his. He smelled so good. Cologne and mint mixed with his actions to send her mind spinning into bliss.

She sighed into his kiss, finally relaxing, finally with feeling…finally.

Draco pulled away and hugged her, resting his chin on her head as she buried her face into his shoulder. No one realized she was crying until he felt her tears wet through his shirt.

"Granger, what's wrong?"

His voice! Hermione cried harder, to her embarrassment. She smiled at him through wet eyes. "I've missed you," she stuttered.

Draco walked her to the den and they both sat on the couch. "I've missed you," he returned. "How did you get in here?"

"One of your guards let me in to visit." Hermione stared at him, not wanting to blink.

It all came pouring forth.

Everything.

Her life. Her job. Connelly. Loneliness. Yesterday.

Draco pulled her into his lap and stroked her hair. "Connelly sounds horrible."

"She is. Draco, I was so afraid you would send me away when I got here."

"Why would I do that?"

Hermione sighed. "I thought that you'd think it was too dangerous for me to be here. That being here would only get me in trouble with the Ministry." She thought about it, then narrowed her eyes. "No one ever told me you could receive visitors. Connelly has forbidden me to see you."

Draco kissed her cheek. "I was wondering where you've been. But then again, I'd always remind myself that you were no doubt reveling in your freedom. Then, I didn't blame you. In fact, I only hated myself more, for the things I did to you."

Hermione shivered despite his warmth. Draco instinctively tightened his hold on her. "Hermione, I said it before, but I am, really, so, so sorry for what I did."

Hermione shook her head and put her forehead on his, making sure he could only look at her eyes. "It's done. And you stopped."

Draco set her on the couch and leapt to his feet. "I should never have started in the first place."

He looked at her. "Your absence has been my punishment."

Hermione stood and hugged him again, slipping her hands under his shirt, rubbing his back. "I don't know how I've made it these past few months. It hasn't been freedom. Just another sort of prison…worse."

They stood holding each other for several minutes.

"Why do you suppose that you were able to make it through my gate today? You weren't able to yesterday, you said."

"I took a taxi today. I feigned sickness so I wouldn't have to go to Connelly and then I jumped in a taxi and came here, hoping that they weren't looking out for Muggle tactics."

Draco chuckled. "So you cheated and then ran away. Ms. Gryffindor, I am ashamed!"

Hermione laughed. "It was petty. But it was my only option short of hexing everyone who tried to stop me. And I'm still hoping for some sort of job where I don't have to listen to people complain about my books."

Draco grinned. "People are complaining about your books and you still haven't hexed anyone? You've grown."

"Oh shut it." Hermione stretched and fell back into the pillows on the couch. "I love the books fine enough, it's the mundane atmosphere that bothers me."

Draco grinned slowly as he lowered himself to the couch and crawled forward so that he was over her. "Life is too boring without me?" Hermione detected a hint of his arrogant self laced in those words. "Excitement is what you're looking for?" He kissed her neck, just below her earlobe, smiling at the shiver his action induced.

"Draco," she gasped, "I only have until seven."

Draco glanced at his watch. "It's only six now…we have an hour to kill. I've missed you. All of you."

Hermione giggled at his blunt honesty. "I've missed all of you too."


	9. Warmth

**Yay chapter 9! Thanks for everyone who is reading this story! Also, a shout out to my reviewers :D I really, truly appreciate your excitement and comments. They've been inspiring and helpful as I progress forward. I will hopefully be able to get on a respond to you guys individually, but in case I can't, thank you, thank you for all your support : )**

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**Chapter 9: Warmth**

_As his hand skimmed over her bare thigh, Hermione sighed, her veins thrumming from her heart's excitement, her entire body finally feeling the warmth isolation and sadness's frigid air had kept so long at bay._

_There was no room between them, yet Hermione wanted to be closer, to never leave, to, indeed, melt right through his skin and be with him always._

Hermione smiled into the pillows beneath her face. She nuzzled deeper savoring the dream as it faded into her subconscious.

Dream?

Hermione sat bolt upright, heart pounding now out of fear rather than pleasure. She glanced around the dark room, trying to see, starting to cry. Only a dream?

Funny how reality seemed the nightmare.

She began struggling to get out of her blankets, gasping as she only became more tangled in her haste. _Stupid silk noose_, she thought bitterly.

The memory that she only owned cotton sheets penetrated her flailing mind only a second later. And then the door opened.

"Granger, what in the world is wrong?" Draco rushed to her side as her limbs began to slow their tussle with the offending bed dressings.

Hermione couldn't help but burst into embarrassed, frustrated tears as she wrapped her arms around Draco's neck. He smiled confusedly, wondering what was happening.

"I thought I was back home," Hermione sniffled into his neck. "I thought that we had just been a dream."

"Ah," Draco rubbed her back. "It's alright." Some mischievous humor entered his voice. "If only I dreamt what we did more often."

Hermione giggled and finally let go of him. She wiped her eyes and grinned. She spotted the clock behind him on the wall.

"Merlin's beard! Is it really seven in the morning?" She looked worriedly at Draco. "I told the man outside I'd be out twelve hours ago!"

Draco put out a palm and waved away her shock. "It's fine. He came by last night around half past seven to see why you hadn't left yet."

"And?"

"And I took the liberty of telling him you had fallen ill. Of course, he seemed suspicious…no doubt thought I had drugged you in some maniacal attempt at kidnapping and bribery," he changed direction upon Hermione's look of astonishment. "It's fine! He took one look at you and attributed your slumber to fever."

Hermione relaxed.

Draco smiled confidently before arrogantly adding, "You were coated with a lovely sheen of sweat, so it wasn't hard to convince him you were feverish. At least I had had time to magic your clothes back on before he came calling. That would have been awkward."

Hermione felt a faint blush creeping up her cheeks from Draco's tone. It had gone from lighthearted and comical to low…desirable.

His eyes were everywhere but locked with hers.

"Did he—," Hermione swallowed twice, hard, before resuming. "Did he say if he'd be back to check on me again?"

Draco was fingering the buttons of her shirt absentmindedly. "Hmm? Oh, I told him I'd call him when you were able to travel again. Which probably gives us another hour before he blasts down my front door with the entire armed Ministry demanding your safe return."

Hermione's heart leapt as his skilled fingers unloosed several buttons. A wand could have done no better.

His lips were on hers almost at the exact same moment his hands found her bare stomach. Despite the heat from both their skin, Hermione shivered delightedly. Draco broke the kiss and placed his forehead on hers, smiling down at her through lidded eyes.

"I truly missed you, Granger."

Hermione kissed him slowly. "Me too."

* * *

At exactly 7:45 Hermione walked calmly down the path leading to the gates where the man from before was anxiously watching her progression.

Her nerves were anything but calm. All she really wanted to do was turn tail and run back to the house. Back to the past she was leaving behind once again for a present and future she was still uncertain of. To the good dream from the nightmare. To Draco's arms from Connelly's hard stare.

The man behind the gate must have noticed the frown on her face, and not knowing her true feelings, immediately linked it to Draco.

"Did Malfoy do something to you Miss? I'll gladly call the Ministry if you'd like," he growled.

Hermione shook her head quickly. "No, not at all. I'm just thinking about the day ahead."

Her guard seemed disheartened that he wouldn't get to do anything exciting today. He handed her the wand she had left with him the previous night.

"Here you are, Madame, kept it safe myself." He beamed at her unexpectedly. "You look much better this morning. You were frightfully feverish looking last night. Looked like someone had put you through the ringer."

The blush returned full force and Hermione dropped into a crouch to "tie her shoe" so he wouldn't notice. She had been through something, alright.

"I'm very well, thank you," she replied to the man. Once she thought the blush had receded enough she stood again. "May I ask you name, sir?"

"Benton, Madame, David Benton."

"Well, Mr. Benton, I must be on my way. And thank you so much for letting me visit my friend. I'm awfully glad I was able to see him. Tell me, do you know when his sentence will be up?"

David Benton was grinning merrily at her thanks. His blue eyes glowed from his crinkled smile. "Aw, don't mention Madame. And I don't know the exact date of his sentence being finished, but I believe it's sometime in the next month or two."

Hermione nodded. "Great! By the way, before I go, do you know if anyone came looking for me last night? I left a note at my flat saying where I'd be just in case anyone came to call."

She felt only a little sad about lying to David, but she had to know if Connelly or her cronies had come to find her.

"Yeah, some twitchy little Wizard with acne came calling. I told him that a lady came to visit Malfoy, but I didn't know her name. I prefer to keep a detached familiarity with people. I respect their privacy."

Hermione nodded, feeling a rush of gratitude to this David Benton. She then thought of the nervous looking boy who had come to check on her when she had been "too sick" to join Connelly.

"Thanks, I'll get going now."

David bowed his head to her and turned his attention back to the Manor. "Have a nice day, Madame."

Hermione kept her stride at a leisurely pace, not really caring about who saw her at the moment. She had seen, held, kissed, and made love with Draco. He was still there, still tangible and sweet. He was still hers and he still loved her.

Hermione laughed as she thought of another test with Connelly and a fake Dementor. "Hell," she quipped out loud. "Give me a _real_ Dementor."

She found herself at the end of the lane. Here she Apparated back to her apartment.

* * *

Only after she made it back to her apartment did Hermione realize that she had essentially skipped work during her time with Draco. Usually, despite its mundane bleakness, an absence from work would have bothered Hermione. And she never would have willingly skipped. She was still very much pre-war Hermione in that sense.

But even pre-war Hermione was having a hard time gathering the adequate amount of anxiety to worry about missing her ever so exciting shift as a cashier at _Amergin Aisling's Bookshop_. Instead of calling to explain herself to Courtney right away, Hermione collapsed onto her couch and smiled foolishly at the ceiling. Finally things had seemed to turn around some. It was enlightening, not having to worry about anything at all.

Soon she noticed the letter on her end table. It was from Connelly . It stated that the doctor was worried about her and would be coming to call at approximately noon that day. Hermione grinned sardonically at the piece of paper. It was only a little past nine.

Gathering a second wind, Hermione grabbed her music player and danced around the house, cleaning each room as a Muggle would, relishing in her ability to cope without a flick of her wand. It was nice being able to do legitimate housework on her knees. Besides, it helped calm her adrenaline rush.

Once every surface was clean, Hermione checked the time, and seeing as it was only 11:30, jumped in the shower.

She had just finished drying her hair when there was a knock at the door. She went and let her guest in.

"Hermione," Connelly smiled warmly, "I'm glad to see that you're up and about. Timothy told me you hadn't felt well yesterday afternoon."

Hermione nodded. "I felt pretty feverish, actually. I think it's had to do with my foul mood lately." She added the last part cautiously.

Connelly regarded her and nodded sympathetically. "I noticed. Where were you all night?" She didn't beat around the bush.

Hermione was ready for her though. "Well, I decided that, after I felt a little better, I would go out and treat myself. I went out and walked around the city for several hours. It really helped me clear my head."

She avoided mentioning specific place names. She knew all it would take was a simple inquiry from Connelly for the intrusive woman to know Hermione hadn't been out in London at all.

Connelly seemed pleased though, with Hermione's fake admission. "That's wonderful Hermione! I noticed, however, that you didn't go to work yesterday. " Connelly seemed to know this sounded even more prying than usual, so she added, "Courtney called me to say you hadn't come in. She thought maybe you and I had an appointment. I told her you hadn't felt well so probably didn't call her for that reason."

Hermione went with it. "Thank you. I should have told her where I was. I really needed a night to myself though."

Connelly sat down on a chair and Hermione sat across from her on the couch.

Hermione continued the conversation. "When I got home late last night, I went to bed and got up this morning at around eight I think. I cleaned once I saw you had left a letter. "

The other woman looked around, still smiling. "You have a nice apartment, Hermione. It's very lovely. So, you weren't at Malfoy's?"

Hermione had been expecting the question. It still startled her, but she forced herself to remain calm and indifferent. She went with a half-truth.

"I'm not going to lie. I took a cab to the end of his lane. This was before I went out through the city. I almost made it to the gate, but decided against it."

She frowned at Connelly's pleased expression. "I decided against it not because I wanted to better myself, but because I don't want him to get into anymore trouble with you or the Ministry. I know you're just trying to help me move on, but I'm not going to stop believing that Draco Malfoy is a bad person. I'm sorry, but no amount of psychological confession is going to help that fact."

She inhaled and continued. "So after I left the Manor grounds, I went and took a walk. While on my walk, I came to the conclusion, that if I don't want to help myself per say, I'll keep away from him to make sure he isn't bothered by you. You might see this as unhealthy, but I don't really care. I'm staying away from him, like you want."

The doctor was clearly taken aback by Hermione's straightforward, logical announcement. Hermione gave a lopsided grin. She had kept her voice level. It was just the right tone to sound completely true. With any luck, Connelly would just accept it.

"Well. While I still wish that you would stay away from him for your own good, I suppose this is good enough for now. I'm glad you're beginning to see things in the right light."

The two of them stared at each other for a few more minutes before Connelly stood to take her leave. "I still would like to see you in my office, just so we can hash out more career ideas for you. If I decide that you are doing well enough by not chasing after Malfoy, I'll certainly help you find a better position."

Here Hermione lost a smidgen of her reserve. "But why exactly would my "obsession" with Malfoy keep me from getting a better job? I don't think that is an ethical thing for you to do."

"Since he is still considered an enemy," Connelly held up a hand to stop Hermione from arguing, "I'm just stating the fact, Hermione. Because he is still an enemy, he must be under surveillance as you know. Your visiting him or spending time with him wouldn't allow you to get a Ministry position. You wouldn't be considered an enemy, but the government certainly wouldn't want to hire someone in that position."

Hermione sighed. It was true, no matter how stupid and unfair. Connelly wasn't trying to ruin her life with that fact…it was just logical.

So she nodded reluctantly. Connelly took that as submission. "But you don't have to worry about it since you're going to stay away, yes?"

"Yes."

"Good. Come to my office tomorrow after work. I will find some job openings in the Ministry that I think you'll be interested in and show you them when you come in."

She Disapparated.

Hermione stared into space, suddenly excited by the promise of a new career. Life was good…for once.


End file.
